


We in it shall be remembered

by woodenwashbucket



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: About these brothers, Aftermath, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Batbrothers (DCU), Gen, I realized yesterday was Saint Crispins day and had feelings, Injury, Jason Todd is a Shakespeare nerd, No editing we die like mne, Shakespeare Quotations, The entire Saint Crispin's Day Speech in fact, waiting for rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-13 17:18:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21185897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodenwashbucket/pseuds/woodenwashbucket
Summary: “Oh, hey,” Jason says, blinking. “It’s…it’s after midnight, isn’t it?”“Yeah. You were out for a while,” Dick says.“So its…” Jason trails off for a moment, then rallies. He seems to be waking up more as time goes on. One thing going well. “It’s the 25th. Saint Crispin’s Day.”





	We in it shall be remembered

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading the Saint Crispin's Day speech, as one does, and had some feelings about what Jason Todd, Shakespeare nerd extraordinaire, might do if injured and out of it with his brothers on said day. Then because it was Whumptober, even if this isn't for a prompt, I made it worse. Hope you enjoy entire Shakespearean speeches in your very short, written-all-in-one-go fics!

“Oh, hey,” Jason says, blinking. They can see him blinking because they’d taken off his cracked helmet and retracted the eye lenses of his mask when he wouldn’t wake up, before. Tim had checked his pupils to make sure they responded to light; that he was alive and not just that his heart was beating. “It’s…it’s after midnight, isn’t it?”

Dick is still holding pressure on the gash in his thigh with one hand and on the exit wound on the back of Damian’s shoulder with the other. Damian has both hands on the entry wound, steadfastly ignoring the pain from pressing on his splintered clavicle.

“Yeah. You were out for a while,” Dick says.

“So its…” Jason trails off for a moment, then rallies. He seems to be waking up more as time goes on. One thing going well. “It’s the 25th. Saint Crispin’s Day.”

“You become Catholic when I wasn’t looking?” Tim asks. He manages to put some teasing in his tone, largely because the hole in Jason’s side that he’s been holding closed isn’t bleeding anymore so much as just oozing blood, and his leg has settled from the sharp pain of newly-broken to the duller pain of just broken. If Jason keeps improving he’ll be able to let go for long enough to splint it.

“Henry V.” Jason still hasn’t looked around at them, but he crawls a hand along the ground and unerringly pats Damian’s ankle. Peripheral vision is a must for Bats, and the masks are designed for it.

“Oh.” Dick smiles. “There’s a speech or something, right? A soliloquy?”

“Nah, not a soliloquy. He’s talking to his commanders.” Jason licks his lips and swallows. It looks painful, though he doesn’t flinch or grimace. He takes a couple of deep breaths and begins. “If we are mark'd to die, we are enow/To do our country loss; and if to live,/The fewer men, the greater share of honour.” He pauses to swallow again. “God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more./By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,/Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;/It yearns me not if men my garments wear;/Such outward things dwell not in my desires:/But if it be a sin to covet honour,/I am the most offending soul alive./No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England-”

“How about a lady from Gotham?” Tim murmurs. “That might be nice.” Jason smiles a little before continuing.

“God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour/As one man more, methinks, would share from me/For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!/Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,/That he which hath no stomach to this fight,/Let him depart-“

“If only,” Damian whispers. It’s the first noise he’s made since it became clear Jason was going to wake up.

“His passport shall be made/And crowns for convoy put into his purse:/We would not die in that man's company/That fears his fellowship to die with us.” Jason manages to turn his head slightly to look at Tim, then at Dick and Damian. “This day is called the feast of Crispian:/He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,/Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,/And rouse him at the name of Crispian./He that shall live this day, and see old age,/Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,/And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'/Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars./And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'” Jason pauses, breathing a bit harder, but it’s clear he hasn’t finished, so the others stay silent. “Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,/But he'll remember with advantages/What feats he did that day: then shall our names/Familiar in his mouth as household words/Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,/Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,/Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd./This-“ Jason cuts off and coughs, wincing at the pain in his side. “This story shall the good man teach his son;/And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,/From this day to the ending of the world-“ Jason stops again and blinks. Tim is close enough to see that he’s tearing up a bit, but he doesn’t say anything. When Jason starts again, his voice is steadier but rougher. “To the ending of the world/But we in it shall be remember'd;/We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.”

Dick sniffs. He’s not bothering to keep back the few tears that roll through the dust and blood on his cheeks, leaving clean trails.

“For he to-day that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother.” Jason smiles faintly. “Be he ne'er so vile-“

“That’s you, Drake,” Damian whispers, half a beat ahead of Tim saying “Damian, that’s you.” Dick breathes a single ‘ha’ of a laugh.

“This day shall gentle his condition,” Jason goes on. “And gentlemen in England now a-bed/Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,/And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.”

Jason’s breath steadies out in the ensuing silence.

“Do you think they will?” Damian asks, after a moment. “Remember us?”

“We’re heroes, Dames,” Dick tells him. “We’re legends. They’re going to tell this story forever.”

“I’d prefer to live to tell the story myself,” Jason murmurs. He’s closed his eyes again. “What do you think are the odds of that happening?”

“Going off precedent,” Tim says, “Some of us might get to tell the story ourselves even if we don’t live.” It startles a laugh out of Jason and Dick. Jason’s laugh turns into a groan at the pain.

They lapse into silence again. The odds of being found eventually are high, even under this much concrete and steel and the other sundry materials that make up skyscrapers. Batman doesn’t give up. They have Superman on their side. The odds of being found before they die from sepsis, or shock, or drown when their little pocket of air fills up with water from a broken pipe they all know is likely filling up the rubble under them, or from rain that they all know is coming eventually, are lower.

“We saved the city,” Jason whispers eventually. His enunciation is slipping. He’s getting less awake again. “They’ll remember us.”

“We few,” Damian whispers back. “We happy few. We band of brothers.”


End file.
